^O PLAYS EXCHANGED. 



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173 
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Ik 



or PL7\Y>3 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 



Price, 25 Cents 



'^^(^ 




•OPYRiaHT. IMt. BY WALTER H. BAKIfl 4 M 






THE AMAZONS ^^^^^ ^ Three Acts. Seven males, Jive lemaies. 
Costumes, modern ; scenery, not difficult. Plays 
a full evening, 

IDE CABINET MINISTER F^^einronrActs. Tenmaie..niiie 
..M4 w M,^^.^M iuui.wmm4m^ females. Costumes, modem society; 

scenei yj three interiors. Plays a full evening, 

DANDY DlCir ^*''<'® ^ ThreQ Acts. Seven males, four f emaies. 
Costumes, modem ; scenery, two interiors. Playf 
two hours and a half. 

THF GAY LORD OUEX ^°™®^y ^ Fomi Acts. Four males ten 
" females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, 

two interiors and an exterior. Plays a full evening. 

HIS HOnSF IN ORDFR comedy in Four Acts. Nine males, fonr 
t^ VUtJLi n V^ULi females. Costumes, modern ; scenery,, 
three interiors. Plays a full evening. 

THF HODRY HORSF C^^^<^y ^ Three Acts. Ten males, five 
^^ females. Costumes, modern; scenery easy. 

Plays two hours and a half. 

IRIS ^" *™* ^^ Five Acts. Seven males, seven females. Costumes, 
modern ; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. 

T ADY ROHNTIFIII ^^"^ "^ V'^^^ Acts. Eight males, seven fe- 
males. Costumes, modern ; scenery, four in- 
teriors, not easy Plays a full evening. 

I FTTY ^^^^^ *^ Four Acts and an Epilogue. Ten males, five fe- 
^ males. Costuthes. modem ; scenery compUcated. Plays a 

full evening- 



Sent prepaid on receipt of price by 

Waltn ^. TSaUt & Company 

No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts 



Elmwood Folks 



A Drama in Three Acts 



By 
CHARLES S. BIRD 



BOSTON 

WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 
1910 



Elmwood Folks 



CHARACTERS 



David Bainbridge, editor of the Elmwood " Item^ 

James Wentworth, an old compositor. 

Squire Alford, a hard man. 

Dick Alford, his stepson^ a young lawyer. 

VVhittier Jones, a contributor to the ** Itetn.^* 

Tommy Gay, Davia's apprentice. 

Mr, Pinch, an officer. 

A Messenger Boy. 

Mrs. Bainbridge, David' s wife. 

Bessie Bainbridge, their daughter. 

Drucilla Jones, IVhittier's aunt. 

Mary Gay, Mrs. Bainbridge' s 7?iaid. Tomtnfs sister. 

SYNOPSIS 

Act I. — Office of the Elmwood Item. 

Act II. — Lawn beside the Bainbridge home. 

Act III. — Parlor in the same. 

Three months are supposed to have elapsed between second 
and third acts. 




Copyright, 1910, by Walter H. Baker & Co. 

All rights reserved 

TNIP92-008657 

©Ci.D 2J^195 



COSTUMES 

David. — Age fifty. Plain suit for Act I ; in shirt sleeves, 
with coat and hat to put on when going out. Modern suit for 
Act 11. House coat and slippers for Act III. 

Wentworth. — Age sixty. Working clothes, apron and 
shirt sleeves, for Act I. Plain suit for Act II. Same for Act 
III, with coat on arm and hat. 

Alford. — Well dressed. Old style collar and tie; heavy 
watch-chain and seal; large soft hat; cane; same for all three 
acts, A man of sixty, but well preserved. 

Dick. — Modern dress; straw hat for Acts I and II; derby 
for Act III. 

Whittier. — Loose sack coat ; white vest; trousers and coat 
black ; soft hat ; Byron collar ; flowing tie ; rather long hair, 
for first two acts ; modern suit for Act III, with hair cut. Care 
should be observed that wig matches natural hair. 

Tommy. — Ordinary b©y'ssuit; shirt, pants and apron for 
Act I. Apron daubed with printer's ink ; no vest ; cap for 
running out. Acts II and III, summer suit. 

Mrs. Bainbridge. — Morning dress for Act I. Modern 
dress for other two acts. 

Bessie. — Summer dresses for first two acts; hat for going 
out. Traveling suit for Act III. 

Drucilla. — Old maid make-up. 

Mary. — House dress; apron, etc. 



Elmwood Folks 



ACT I 

SCENE. — Office of the Elmwood ' ' Item: ' Door hack c. Old- 
fashioned desk R. Telephone on desk. Desk is littered with 
papers, letters, manuscripts, etc. A typesetter s fortn back L., 
with type box, etc. ; high stool in front. Table l. c, piled 
with exchanges ; a feiv plain chairs about roo?n ; floor littered 
up, waste-paper basket by desk, bills, etc., on wall. At rise 
David Bainbridge is seated at desk. James Wentworth 
is setting type at form. Tommy Gay by table leaning on 
broom^ reading neivspaper ; he is supposed to be sweeping 
office. A jnorning in July. 

David (^reading ?nafiuscript). Ha ! Ha ! H-ah ! Oh, my ! 
Ha ! Ha ! Say, James 

James. Well, sir? 

David. James, listen to this. 

James (^smiling "quietly). I suppose I can guess what it is 
before you begin. 

David. No doubt, no doubt ; but this time it is the limit. 
Listen. {Reads.) "An Ode to a Sparrow. 

*'0 little bird upon the tree. 
That sings and whistles merri-lee, 

While I sit on a stump ; 
I see you give your tail a fling. 
And flirt your little feathered wing 
As you your back do hump " 

{Looks up.) Huh ! " stump — hump" — that's what you might 
call getting stumped for a rhyme, eh ? {Continues,) 

" I wish that I could sit all day " 

{Looks up.) Wish ? Why, he don't do anything else but sit 
all day. Pity he wasn't a hen ; it might amount to some- 
thing. {Continues.) 

5 



6 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

<' I wish that I could sit all day 
And sing a little roundelay, 
Like you, O happy bird ; 
With music sweet I'd fill the air, 
And at this coarse world's wear and tear, 
I'd never say a word. 

— Whittier Jones." 

Now isn't that sweet? Say, wouldn't Whit look pretty sitting 
up in a tree singing a — a — what is it he calls it? {Looks at 
manuscript.) Oh, a ''roundelfCy," whatever that is. 

Tom. Ha ! Ha ! He'd look like a turkey buzzard. 

James. Poor boy; why does he do it ? {Shakes his head.") 

David {angriiy). Doit? Why, \\^ don't ; he don't come 
within a mile of doing it. Bah ! to think of a full-grown man 
writing such twaddle, and expecting me to publish it in the Item, 
Driveling rot ! No more of it for me. Why, all my ex- 
changes are beginning to poke fun at the Elmwood Item's 
'< poetical rubbish heap," as they call it. 

Tom. Say, Mr. Bainbridge, did you hear what happened 
to Whit night before last ? 

David. Um — no. Tommy ; what was it ? 

Tom. Why, he went out in their back yard to recite some 
verses to the moon that he had written about it, and backed 
into his Aunt Drusie's hotbed ; went right through, glass and 
all. Ha! Ha! Ha! 

David. Ha ! Ha ! Served him right. Say, James, that 
poem must have been a ** smashing one," hey? 

James. Poor fellow ! it's a pity he cannot get that foolish- 
ness out of his head. He'd be a pretty nice kind of a boy if 
it were not for his — ah — *' poetry," as he terms it. 

David, Um-m. 

James. Had I not better go into the pressroom and see 
how they are getting along with this week's edition ? 

David. Yes, James, guess you had; and tell them to push 
the paper out on time this week, (^.r// James, l. u. e.) And 
here, Tommy, take these letters down to the post-ofiice and 
bring back the mail ; and mind, now, no baseball or marbles 
on the way. 

Tom. {soberly). No, sir. 

( Winks aside ; takes letters ; discards apron ; puts on his 
cap, and exit by door back, whistling.) 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 7 

David {^looking over papers). Now wasn't that just like old 
Wentwoith — what he said about Whittier Jones? Catch him 
saying anything bad about anybody. I never saw such a chap ; 
lie can always find a straight grain in the crookedest piece of 
limber that ever grew. Says he has learned by bitter experi- 
ence not to judge too quickly by appearances. Perhaps he is 
right ; guess there must have been something in his life that 
has caused him to view things at a different angle from the 
most of us. Well, David, this won't do; you'd better get 
down to business, or there'll be nothing done to-day. 

{Squares away for work.^ 

Enter Mrs. Bainbridge, l. u. e. 

Mrs. B. {laughing a7id putti7ig her hand lovingly on David's 
shoulder). Well, David, talking to yourself as usual ? You 
must enjoy your own society more than 

David {taking her hafid). Hullo, mother, what's the trouble 
in the Bainbridge establishment to-day? Bread all dough — 
cream all butter — or what? I know it's something important 
when you hunt the editor of the Elmwood Item in his sanctum 
sanctorum, and so out with it. Ha ! Ha ! Want a new 

Mrs. B. Will you try to be quiet a moment, you old talk- 
ing machine ? How can I tell you anyihmg if you keep up a 
continual stream of talk, as you always do? 

David. I'm dumb as a rabbit, my dear. Out with it ; I 
know you must have something on your mind. I can always 
tell by looking in those eyes, which have always been the 
dearest 

Mrs. B. There you go again. {Shakes her fijiger at him.) 

David. Forgive me, my dear. {Kisses her.) Now, then, 
fire away, dear, before I get started again. 

Mrs. B. David, I suppose you have noticed that our Bessie 
and Dick Alford have always seen a good deal of each other — 
have been friends, in fact, since they were children ; and that 
since Bessie returned from college they have seemed more fond 
of each other's society than ever, and 

David {dryly). Well, mother, since you mention it, I be- 
lieve I have seen Dick hanging 'round here quite a bit, first and 
last. Ha ! Ha ! And I don't know as I blame him any. If 
/was a young chap like him, I think 

Mrs. B. Now what did I tell you ? 

David. Sure enough ; I forgot. 



8 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

Mrs. B. And so I was not. much surprised when Bessie told 
me last night lliat sb.e had accepted Dick, and they would be 
so happy if we would consent to iheir^ 

David (^juntpi?ig up). Consent? Of course we will. Why, 
mother, this is the best piece of news I've heard in a month of 
Sundays. Bessie's happiness is above everything else with you 
and me, and Dick Alford is the finest young fellow in Elm- 
wood ; doing well at the law, too. It couldn't be better, 
but Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! 

Mrs. B. Well, David, what is there so dreadfully amusing 
about it? 

David, I was wondering how Dick's stepfather. Squire 
Alford, would be pleased with the news. The old skinflint! 
Not that he cares, — or for the matter of that, ever did care any- 
thing for Dick; but do you know, 1 sometimes believe that old 
sore rankles yet, in spite of the years since 

Mrs. B. David, don't talk nonsense. 

David (^putting an arm around her). Yes I do, dear. I 
don't think he has ever forgiven me for marrying the dearest 
girl in the world, and the one he had his own eye on. You 
remember he called me a " poverty-stricken ink slinger " at the 
time, — said he'd get even if it took a lifetime. The old screw ! 
We can afford to laugh at him now, I hope. Look at ourselves 
— then look at him — all alone — nothing but his money — getting 
on -in years, and sour as a crab-apple ; why, with all his wealth, 
I wouldn't 

{Voices heard outside. Dick Alford and Bessie Bain- 
bridge enter l. u. e. ) 

Mrs. B. Hush ! I hear them coming. 

Bess. Well, here you are. I have been hunting the house 
over for you, mother. It is such a lovely morning, Dicky and 
I are going to drive out to the 

Dick. One moment, dear; I want to speak to your father 
and mother first. {Turns to David and Mrs. B.) You must 
both know that Bessie and I have long 

Bess. Oh, yes, for ever so long. 

Dick {confused). And — and we have hoped that you 

Bess. Oh, you will, won't you, daddy ? 

Dick. Ah — er — would see that it would make us very happy 
if you would only consent to 

David {enjoying the situation^). Consent to your going 
driving? Why, of course. I haven't the slightest objections, 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 9 

provided mother is willing and your horse is perfectly safe; you 
know how to drive, don't you, Dick? 

Dick. Of course ; but, sir, it is not a question of driving. 
You see, Bessie is as anxious as I am — and 

David. Then I don't see 

Mrs. B. Now, David 

Bess. Father! don't you understand? After poor Dicky 
has spoken so plainly, too? You cannot help but see 

Dick {^floundering). Yes; and it only needs — it — er — 
only 

Mrs. B. {coming to the rescue). What do you want to 
plague the poor children for, David ? He knows all about it, 
dears. I have just told him, and if you but knew how happy 
this makes us both 

David {seriously). Children {kissing Bess.), this is the 
{taking Dick's hand) happiest moment of my life — {looking 
slyly at Mrs. B.) except one, and that was when 

Mrs. B. {smilifig). David, can't you be sensible? 

David. Ha ! Ha ! How dreadfully bashful some folks 
are; but this really is a happy day for us all. Come, let's 
go into the house a little while, and talk this over. 

[All exeunt, L. u. E. 

Enter Whittier Jones, c. d., reading manuscript. 

Whit, {reading). 

** The bee that from the clover bloom. 
The sticky honey sips. 
Drinks nothing half so sweet, my love, 
As honey of thy lips." 

(Looks up.) Ah, what a glorious thing is the gift of poesy — 
who but a poet could so express such a tender sentiment? 
{Resumes. ) 

^'And all the httle stars of night, 
Which twinkle in the sky. 
Glow not as bright as does, my sweet, 
Thy blue and limpid eye. " 

*'Thy blue and limpid eye" ! That last line is beautiful — 
beautiful ; " limpid " is so expressive ; I looked it up and found 



lO ELMWOOD FOLKS 

it meant pellucid, and I found pellucid meant translucent, and 
translucent meant limpid, so I used it ; it will surely make an 
impression on a girl with a college education. (^Looks around?) 
Now, if I can only see her. Her father has no doubt called her 
attention particularly to the verses which 1 permit him to insert 
in the Eimwood Item each week. She must see that many of 
them possess a deeper meaning than the average village intellect 
can grasp, but which a truly receptive heart could not fail to 
comprehend ; for what other reason would I scatter my most 
cherished thoughts among these obscure people, when a broader 
field is only waiting until 1 am ready to 

Enter Tom. , c. d. ; lays inail on desk. 

Tom, Hullo, Whit, going to the game to-morrow? 

Whit. (Jiastily concealing manuscript^. What game? 

Tom. (astonisJied). What game? Why, the ^^//game, of 
course. 

Whit. No, Tommy, I have no time for such rude pastimes 
as baseball; a " literary life " lifts one above such things. 

Tom. {throwing down cap, dons apron^. Gee ! it's going 
to be the hottest game of the season ; two apiece for Eimwood 
and Hilltown, and to-morrow's game decides the series. I'd 
ruther lose my job than not see it. I'm bettin' on Eimwood. 

Whit. It does not interest me, Tommy, in the least. 

Tom. (aside; disgusted). Huh! I always thought Whit 
was a fool, an* now I know it. Not want to go to a ball game ! 
and him livin' in the United States ! He makes me tired. 
You bet /'//be there, if Mr. Bainbridge will only let me off. 

(lie starts to work around the office. ) 

Whit. Ah, by the way. Tommy, do you know if Mr. 
Bainbridge received my poem for this week's issue? 

Tom. What was it about? Was it that one about the 
** chippy " ? 

Whit. No, no ! — '* The sparrow ^ 

Tom. Uh, huh ; he got it. 

Whit. Did you hear him say anything about it ? How — 
er — he liked it, or 

Tom. (trying not to laugh). Sure, it tickled him stiff. 

Whit. Er — what? I don't understand. 

Tom. (soberly). 1 mean that it seemed to please him very 
much. 1 heard him reading it to Mr. Wentvvorth. They 
seemed to get a lot of fun out of it. 



ELM WOOD FOLKS II 

Whit. Fun ? 

Tom. 1 mean pleasure; it's the same thing, ain't it, Whit? 

Whit, (^dubiously). Why, yes, I believe so; but not, I 
hope, in this case. I am gratified to know that Mr. Wentvvorlh 
liked it ; his opinion is worth having, and I am sure it was 
very flattering. 

Tom. Oh, very. Well, I've got to go into the pressroom. 

Whit. All right. Tommy. I believe I'll sit here a while 
and read the morning paper. I have nothing else to do just 
now. 

{Takes chair by table, R. ; picks up paper and reads.') 

Tom. {aside'). You never do have anything else to do. I 
guess your Aunt Drusie would be a good deal better off if you 
did. [Exit, R. u. E. 

Enter Mary Gay, l. u. e. 

Mary {going to desk). I wonder if there are any letters for 
the house this morning, {Looks at mail.) Elmwood Ite7n — 
Ehnwood Item — David Bainbridge, Esq. {Looks up. ) I won- 
der who that is from? {Looks it over.) Some lawyer, I guess 
— yes, ** Jackson and Jackson, attorneys-at-law," — Mr. Bain- 
bridge's lawyers in the city. Anymore? I guess not. Oh, 
yes, here's one, — "Miss Elizabeth Bainbridge, Elmwood." 
Now, who under the sun would think of calling her anything 
but Bessie? It's local, too, and in a man's hand. Ha ! Ha ! 
I wonder what Mr. Dicky Alford would think of that? 

Whit, {starting, and putting down paper). Good-morning, 
Mary. 

Mary. Oh ! Mr. Whittier, how you startled me. {Drops 
letter.) I didn't know there was any one here. 

Whit. I was just looking over the paper while I waited to 
see — er {Aside. ) This young woman has always ap- 
peared to appreciate my work ; why not read her this last child 
of my brain, which I have dedicated to — ah — and so judge 
what effect it is likely to have on — er — Miss Gay. {Aloud.) 
May I trespass on your time a few moments? 

{Draws manuscript from his bosom.) 

Mary. Certainly, Mr. Whittier. {Aside.) Oh, I do be- 
lieve he is going to read me one of his beautiful poems. 

Whit, {aside). *' Mr. Whittier." I wish ^11 of our vil' 



12 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

lagers would yield me the respect this young woman so cheer- 
fully concedes. Miss — er — Miss Mary, you have done me the 
honor before this of professing to admire my writings, — my 
blossoms of genius, as it wtre ; may I read you my latest and 
best? I think it will appeal to you, and I would be glad of 
your candid opinion of its merits, before 1 hand it to — ahem — 
here it is. 

Mary. Why, what an honor; do go on, I am just dying to 
hear it, Mr. Whittier. 

Whit, {bowings much flattered ; reading^. 

"The bee that from the clover bloom, 
The sticky honey sips. 
Drinks nothing half so sweet, my love, 
As honey of thy lips." 

Mary. Why, how beautifully you have expressed that. 
Whit. I am glad you think so, — but let me read you the 
next verse. I consider it even better. 

''And all the little stars of night, 
Which twinkle in the sky, 
Glow not as bright as does, my sweet, 
Thy blue and limpid eye." 

Mary. How exquisite. 

Whit. It is entitled, *' To one who will understand." 

Mary (aside). He must mean it for me. (^To Whit.) It 
is lovely ; ah, if /could only write poetry, I would 

Whit, (loftily'). Oh, as for that, you need not repine. Miss 
Gay, for the divine fire of poesy descends upon but few in a 
generation. 

Mary. I know ; but how nice it must be to feel that you 
are one of the elect. (Sighs.) Now you must excuse me. 1 
have to run down to the store. 

Whit. May I not walk along with you? I don't think I 
will be able to see the — ah 

Mary. Of course you may. I will get my hat and be right 
back. {^Exit, l. u. e. 

Enter James, r, u. e. 
James. Ah, good-morning, Whittier; glad to see you. 



ELM WOOD FOLKS 1 3 

Whit. Good-morning, Mr. Wentworth. 

James. Well, have you thought over what I said to you the 
other evening in regard to looking up that position ? 

Whit. Yes, sir, I have considered it ; and while I appre- 
ciate your kindness in the matter, 1 really do not think it wise 
to relinquish my literary aspirations for the more humble paths 
of commerce. 

James. Better be sure, my boy, that you are not making a 
mistake. Many a valuable career has been spoiled through the 
choice of a wrong road in youth. 

Whit. Oh, I feel sure I am right ; no one could have the 
feelings / have without knowing 

Enter Mary, l. u. e. 

Mary. All ready, Mr. Whittier. How do you do, Mr. 

Wentworth ? 

James. Good-morning, Mary ; a pleasant walk to you both. 

Mary. Thank you. \_Exeunt Whit, and Mary, c. d. 

James. Poor boy ! Living in the clouds, while right down 
here on solid earth there is real happiness within his grasp if he 
would only open his eyes to that which is so easy for all the 
rest of us to see. Mary is a good, industrious girl, and would 
make him a capable wife. I know there is better stuff in Whit- 
tier than his weak attempts at verse making would indicate, and 
when the right time comes I'll have another talk with him and 
see if his latent good sense cannot be brought to the surface. 

{Goes to type case?) 

Eiiter David, l. u. e. ; goes to desk. 

David {looking over papers^. Well, James, I have some 
news for you. 

James. Have you ? What is it, David, some disgruntled 
subscriber stopped his paper, or ? 

David {laughing). No, this is good news. Dick and Bessie 
are engaged, — going to be married in the fall. 

James {coming over, grasps David's hand). My dear 
David, this is good news indeed. Nothing I could have heard 
would have given me greater joy, for ever smce I have been 
here, and that is nearly fifteen years, I have loved these chil- 
dren as though they were my own, and I feel that I have the 
right to claim a share in the happiness which this will bring to 
you and yours. 



14 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

David (jvartnly). To be sure you have ; we have known 
all along how interested you were in their welfare, and we have 
appreciated it, though to tell the truth, we have never been 
wholly able to understand it, strangers as we all were to you at 
first. 

{Turns to desk.") 

James. That would not be hard for you to understand, 
David, if you only realized the kindness which I, a lonely man, 
have been the grateful recipient of in this home. {Aside.) 
Ah, little do these good people suspect my real reason for 
being so deeply interested in all that concerns them. 

David. Well, James, at any rate we know you are one of 
the best old fellows that ever lived, and that is enough for us. 

(James retiu^fis to stool.) 

Efiter Aunt Drucilla Jones, c. d. 

Dru. Good-mornin', David; good-mornin', Mr. Went- 
worth. I was jest goin' by an' thought I'd stop a minit and 
see about my subscription to th' Item. Hope I can soon pay 
up for last year's paper now. Whittier tells me he is expectin' 
to hear somethin' from that big magazine he sent some of his 
work to a month ago, and 

David. Humph ! Did he send any postage along with it ? 

Dru. Oh, yes, it took a ten-cent stamp on the wrapper. 
He says them folks is always slow about answerin' letters, they 
have so many ; but he says they will get around to it in a 
reasonable time. Probably they won't bother with writin' at 
all — ^jest send a check, you know. How much, now, do you 
s'pose ? 

David. Um-m. I hope you will not be disappointed, 
Aunt Drusie. And as for the Item, don't let that worry you. 
I think you will get it everv week as long as I am its pub- 
lisher, and I guess that will be for some time yet. Hear any 
news this morning ? 

(Dru. sits near desk.) 

Dru. Oh, nothin' particular. I come by Lyddy Spooner's 
jest now. Lyddy was a-hangin' out her wash in the front 
yard, an' she called to me as I was goin' up th' road, an' so I 
stopped, an' Lyddy come t' th' fence, wipin' her han's on her 
apron, an' says, " Did you hear about th' fire last night ? " J 



ELM WOOD FOLKS 1 5 

says, "No; where was it?" And Lyddy said that she an' 
Job wus woke up las' night by hearin' th' roosters a-crowin' 
down behind th' barn. Job said to her, '* That's kinder funny 
for them to be crowin' this time o' night, when there ain't no 
moon, an' 'twas darker'n pitch when we come t' bed." But jest 
then Lyddy said she turned over in bed and seen hght under 
th' winder curtain, an' she says, ''For goodness' sake, git up, 
Job Spooner; it's broad dayHght an' we've overslep' ourselves, 
an' there's my washin' t' do," an' — well. Job jumped out on 
the floor an' pulled up the curtai^i, an' then Lyddy said he 
yelled fire, an' made a grab for his pants. She said, ''Where 
is it? " an' he hollered out, "It's th' barn; come on." And 
then he put down -stairs, an' she after him, soon as she could 
git inter somethin', both yellin' " fire " as hard as they could. 
But she said when they got out in the yard they see it wasn't 
th' barn at all, but 'twas their old haystack down behind it, 
Lyddy said 'twan't much loss, as 'twas over half used up, any- 
way. I asked her how they s'posed it got afire, an' she said 
Job thought likely some tramp had crawled in it to sleep an' 
set it afire with his pipe; but she said they was so glad 'twasn't 
th' barn that they didn't look 'round any, but went back t' bed 
an' went t' sleep. 

David. Well, I guess the loss of a ton or so of hay won't 
hurt Job Spooner very much. He would not have had it out- 
side, anyway, if his barn hadn't been so full last fall he had no 
other place to put it. 

Dru. Yes, that's what Lyddy said. Well, I guess I'd 
better be a-movin'. {Starts for door ; returns.) Oh, by th' 
way, David, now I think of it, did Whittier let you have his 
last poem — that one about th' sparrer? He first thought of 
sendin' it t' some of th* magazines, but then he said he guessed 
he'd put one more piece into the Elmwood Ite7n as a sort of a 
valadictry, whatever that is, before he stuck his poetical plough- 
share into a more fertile soil. Wasn't that beautifully ex- 
pressed ? But he is always saying such fine things it is hard 
for a body to remember them all. Oh, I tell you that boy will 
be heard of some day, mark my words. 

David. Very likely, Aunt Drusie, very likely. Yes, I got 
the poem, and it was — er — about like the rest. 

Dru. I knew you would think so. {Starts for door.) 
Well, good -morn in'. 

David. Good-day. {Takes up papers again.) 

Dru. {retur fling). Now I think of it, there was one other 



1 6 ELM WOOD FOLKS 

thing. When I was down to the post-office I heard Squire 
Alford talkin' to some of the men about them minin' stocks 
that feller was peddlin' 'round here last spring, and that every- 
body in Elmwood seemed to be so crazy about. 

David. Did you ? Well, what did the Squire have to 
say? 

Dru. As near as I could make out — without list'nin', you 
know 

David {iiryly). Oh, of course, of course. 

Dru. As near as I could make out, he said somethin' 
about its bein' the biggest swindle that ever struck the town. 

David. Um-m. (^Opens a letter.) 

Dru. Well, good-bye. 

David {cibsently'). Good-day, good-day. 

James {coming over). David, what do you think about this 
mining investment? You know 1 said 

David {laiighifig). Think of it, James ? Why, 1 think Al- 
ford is chewing over his sour grapes again. You know he tried 
to get some of those shares himself after the rest of us had seen 
what a good thing it was, and there was no more to be had. 
Squire Alford — bah ! 

James. Well, it may be all right. " I hope it is, but you 
know I advised you to look into it carefully. Perhaps, though. 
Aunt Drusie did not hear 

David. Aunt Drusie — the dear old gossiping soul ! Can't 
you see, James, that all she came in here for this morning was 
to talk about Whittier and his infernal rot? And she wanted 
a few extra pegs to hang an excuse on, that's all. 

James. Oh, I suppose it's all right. 

David (a little uneasily). Certainly it is. I am afraid you 
will find yourself in the wrong about this, for once, although 
that don't happen very often, I admit. {Ring at telephone.) 

Hello yes no, he was here. Just gone for a short drive 

with my daughter is that so poor chap too bad 

where ? At the hotel yes right away. 

James. Anything wrong, David ? 

David. It was Dr. Brown. He said there was a man — 
probably a tramp — badly hurt on the railroad just now, trying 
to board a moving train. {Calls off.) Tommy — Tommy! 
{E?iter Tom., r. u. e.) You run down the spring road and 
see if you can find Dick. Tell him he's wanted at the hotel 
right away. There is a man down there fatally hurt, and he 
wants to see a lawyer at once. Run now, and if you make good 



ELMWOOD FOLKS I 7 

time maybe I'll see about letting you go to the ball game to- 
morrow. 

Tom. Gee ! see me start. (^Runs off^ CD.) , 

James. Poor fellow ! hard luck. 

David. Yes, yes. {Reads letter?) Hullo, here's a check 
from old Fleming for the Item for the last few years. Hum — 
better late than never. I'd about given him up. ( Opens another 
letter?) Here's the copy for the bill of that sheriff's sale down 
at the <' Corners." Poor Joe Turner! Another example of 
Squire Alford's fine financial hand; pushes everybody to the 
wall he can. 

(James eomes over ; takes copy?) 

James. Y'es, he is a hard man — a hard man, {Aside?) 
And who knows it better than I? {Returns to place?) 

David {opening another letter'). Ah, a letter from Jackson 

and Jackson. I wonder what they — um-m {Reads. 

James busy; does not notice.^ "David Bainbridge, Elm- 
wood. Dear Sir : This is to inform you that in going over the 
affairs of our late client, Ezra Potter, we found them badly in- 
volved, owing to unfortunate investments he had made. Among 
other things, we found that he had recently disposed of the 
mortgage which he held on your property in Elmwood to some 
one to us unknown, but we trust to some one who will be as 
square in their dealings with you as \Ve know our late client to 
have been. If we can serve you in any way in the matter, 
kindly let us know. Very truly yours, Jackson and Jackson." 
That's strange! Why didn't Potter let me know about this? 
I know he died very suddenly — probably that was the reason. 
Well, it will all come out right when I realize on those mining 
shares. I would never have raised the money on my property 
here had I not been certain of the outcome, and 

Enter Tom., c, d. 

Tom. They're coming. Just met them on the way home. 

\_Exit^ R. u. E. 

Enter Dick ^«^Bess., c. d. 
Dick. What is it? Tommy said 

(David rises.) 



l8 ELM WOOD FOLKS 

David. You're waiiied over at ibe hotel, Dick. Some one 
hurt — wants to make a statement or something. 

Dick. Poor fellow ! I'll go at once. Good-bye, Bessie. 

[ExiV, c. D. 

Bess. How dreadful. I hope it is not as bad 

David {putting on coat and hat). Dr. Brown says he can't 
live. 1 think I'll go over and see if I can find out more about 
it. Bess, you tell mother where I've gone. I'll come back in 
a few minutes. \^Exit, C. D. 

James {coini7ig down). Bessie, your father has just told me 
that you and Dick are to be married. Will you permit me to 
congratulate you, and to say — as I have just said to him — that 
nothing I could have heard would have pleased me as much as 
this, or have been such welcome news ? 

Bess. Thank you, Mr. Wentworth. I knew you would feel 
as you do. You have always been so kind and so considerate 
ever since I have known you, and I have often found myself 
wondering 

James. My dear child, there may be reasons why; but I 
must go now ; not, however, before 1 give you my best wishes 
for your future happiness. \^Exit, R. u. E, 

Bess, {looking after hint). I wonder what he meant by 
reasons? I have heard him say things like that before. He is 
a dear old man, though, and if there is anything in his past 
about which he does not? care to speak, it is his affair, not ours. 
(Goes over to desk.) I wonder if there was any mail for me 
this morning? Yes, here is a letter for Miss Elizabeth Bain- 
bridge. Elizabeth! Doesn't that look queer? {Looks at 
postmark.) And from some one in Elmwood, too. Ha ! Ha ! 
The idea of any one here calling me anything but Bessie ; it's 
roo funny. Well, I guess the only way to solve the mystery is 
to open it. And they say that's the last thing a woman does. 
{Tears letter open; reads.) *'My dear Miss Elizabeth: 
Perhaps you will be surprised at the contents of this note, but 
they will no doubt appeal to your reason, and I hope to your 
heart as well. I have long admired you, and now that you 
have grown to womanhood and are old enough to manage an 
establishment, I desire to offer you my heart and hand. There 
is no need for me to say that I am able to support a wife in 
much better style than any other man in Elmwood. You will 
have all that a woman's heart can desire once you are installed 
in my home as its mistress. Or, should it be your wish, we 
can leave Elmwood with all its groveling inhabitants, and 



ELMWOOD FOLKS I9 

create a new home in some more congenial place. Do not de- 
cide hastily; tal^e a day or two; 1 can wait. Hoping that 
your reply may be favorable, I am, yours devotedly, Francis 
Alford." Well, of all the absurd things I ever heard of! 
Squire Alford ! The old — old — what was it Dicky called him 
this morning? Oh, ''curmudgeon," — the old curmudgeon, — 
wants to marry me. Ha! Ha! Ha! isn't that rich? (Si'^s 
in chair, r., and laughs until she cries. ^ Oh, my! [Wipes 
her eyes.') If that isn't the funniest thing 1 ever heard of. Oh, 
if Dicky was only here. {Changes her mood, Jumps up a?id 
stajjips foot angrily.) No, it's not funny at all; it's insulting, 
positively insulting. Squire Alford knows that Dicky and I 
have always been — I suppose he thinks this would be a good 
way to revenge himself on Dicky for having left him as soon as 
he was old enough to realize that it was the squire's treatment 
of his poor mother that finally drove her to her grave. He 
always bore Dicky a grudge because he was independent and 
worked his way up by his own efforts; but if he thinks this 

plan will work, he is sadly mistaken. I'll show this to 

{Pauses.) No, that will do no good. I'll send him a very 
decided answer, and when we are married I'll show it to Dicky, 
and we will have a good laugh over it together. 

(Mrs. B. heard calling off i..) 

Mrs. B. Bessie — Bessie! {Enters, \..\5.y..) Oh, here you 
are. I need you in the house now, dear. 

(Bess, conceals letter.) 

Bess. Yes, mother, I'm coming. 

\_Exeiint together, L. u. e. 

Enter Squire Alford, c. d. 

Squire. No one here ? Well, what could you expect in a 
place that is run by a man who has no more idea of business 
than Bainbridge has? A fool, who'd rather laugh than work. 
I wonder if the girl has received my note yet? I suppose she 
will be a little surprised at first, maybe a trifle unwilling, but 
I think I have a way of bringing her to consider the matter 
from my point of view. {Laughs meanly^ I — think — I — 

have, and if Bainbridge and his wife prove obstinate 

(Taps his breast pocket significantly.) Well, I have something 
which will either bring them to terms or else afford me the 



20 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

means of paying off the old score which has stood for so many 
years. 

{Takes up paper from table, R., and looks at it.^ 
Enter James, unobserved, r. u. e. 

]hMES (aside). He here? What can he want ? This man 
whose very presence is a menace to all that is good or true. 

Squire (lookifig up). Oh, good-morning. Don't seem to 
be very busy around here to-day. 

James. Good-morning, Squire Alford. 

Squire. Where's Bainbridge ? 

James. I think he is down town. 

Squire. Hm, nice time to be gadding about when his paper 
is supposed to be going to press. 

James. That part of the work is going on ; / attend to that. 

Squire. Huh — you. 

James. David went down to find out something about a 
poor fellow — a tramp — who was fatally injured by a train this 
morning. 

Squire. I heard about it. Served him right. 'Twould 
be a good thing if all of these gentry were ground up on the 
railroad. 

James. I do not agree with you. They are an unfortunate 
class, but when they suffer, they are entitled to the same 
sympathy we would expect to receive under like circumstances. 

Squire (sneeringly). No doubt, no doubt, from your point 
of view. Why, 1 guess if the truth were known, you wasn't 
much better than a tramp yourself when youianded in Elm- 
wood. 

James. It may be true that I was a poor man at that time. 
Squire Alford, and even now, I am not possessed of much in 
the way of \\\\2^. you might regard wealth, but {with a peculiar 
empJiasis) I was, as I have ever been, an honest man, with 
naught but good will toward all my fellow creatures. Can you 
say as much? 

Squire {angrily). Bosh ! At least I am no canting hypo- 
crite like you. And, say, — while we are on this subject, I will 
take the liberty to observe that this is not the first time you 
have tried to air your superior virtues at my expense, nor the 
first time you have meddled with my affairs either ; and I warn 
you, there is a limit to my tolerance. 1 do not know why it is, 
but for a number of years I have known of your attempts to 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 21 

thwart my plans. Why you have done so is a mystery to some 
extent, but one that I will solve. It has got to be stopped, do 
you understand ? 

Jamp:s. If I have meddled with your affairs, as you term it, 
it has been for the sake of some poor soul whom you were try- 
ing to oppress in some way ; and I tell you plainly, that should 
occasion demand it, I would again be found trying to assist, 
aye, and protect any one who might bie so unfortunate as to 
fall into your mercenary grasp. 

Squire. Well, we will see about 

Enter David a7id Dick, c. d. They exchange greetings with 
• Squire, 7iot over cordially. 

James. What is the word in regard to the accident ? 

David {taking off coat and hat and hanging them nf). The 
poor fellow is gone, James ; died just after making a deposi- 
tion — some might call it a confession — before Dick here. 

Squire. Common thief, I suppose. 

Dick. Yes, Mr. Wentworth, it was a confession — rather a 
strange story — something that happened twenty-three years 
ago in another state. Here it is. {Shows paper. ^ Copies 
of it have been sent to the city papers, at his request, hoping 
that it might thus come to the notice of those who would re- 
member the facts, and by its aid be enabled to establish the 
innocence of a person who was wrongfully convicted of a crime 
at the time referred to. 

James. What ! Where was 

{Appears faiiit and sijiks into a chair. David and Dick 
run to his assistajice ; Squire does not notice the rest ; 
seems to be absorbed in thought down L. f.) 

Enter Mrs. B. «;^^Bess,, l. 

Mrs. B. What is it? 

David. A glass of water, quick. James is faint. 

(Bess, pours glass of ivater from pitcher on table and gives 
to James.) 

Squire {aside). Twenty-three years ago ! Why, that 

was {Collects himself.') Pshaw! That's impossible. 

Every one concerned has been dead for years. 

James {recovering). Thank you, thank you — it was noth- 
ing — the heat perhaps, I am all 



22 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

Enter Messenger Boy, c. d., with a telegram. 

Messenger Boy. Telegram for Mr. Bainbridge. 
David. For me? 

( Takes telegram ; signs book. Exit Messenger Boy, 
whistling. David ope7is e?ivelope and reads ; falls into 
chair at desk and buries face in hands. He groaris and 
seei7is much overcome.') 

Mrs. B. {standing over him). David, what is it ? 

Bess, {taking the message from his hand). Let me read it. 
{Reads aloud.) "David Bainbridge, Elmwood. Sorry to 
inform you — bottom has fallen out of mining investment— -.a 
swindle — more by letter. Simpson." 

(Mrs. B. puts her arm around David ; Bess, kneels by his 
chair holdi?ig his hand; Dick a7td ]ames sta?id near ; all 
if I group.) 

Squire {standing aloof, aside). Everything is playing into 
my hands. {Turns to the rest.) This is no surprise to 7ne. 
I predicted something of the kind all along — in fact, I knew 
that 

Dick {indignafitly). You knew? What did you know? 

Squire. Don't get excited, my young bantam friend; yes, 
I knew for some time the sort of man you people were dealing 
with — that is, I mean I had heard 

Dick {angrily). You knew — you had heard ! And yet you 
allowed your friends and neighbors to be the victims of a 
rascal, without lifting a hand to save them. Squire Alford, I 
have always known you were a hard man, but I would never 
have believed you were capable of such baseness as 

Squire. Be careful what you say, young man ; there are 
witnesses here, and {sneeringly) the little you know of the law 
should teach you that you cannot slander people with impunity. 

Bess. Dicky, don't talk to him. 

James. Don't take it so hard, David ; you know the mort- 
gage is in good hands. 

David. It was, James, it was ; but I received a letter only 
this morning saying that it had changed hands, and I do not 
know who holds it now ; if I did 

Squire. Oh, that reminds me of what I called to see you 
about this morning, Bainbridge. The — er — mortgage on your 
property came into my possession recently in the — ah — way of 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 23 

business, in fact, a^ part payment on a note of the late Ezra 
Potter's which I held. Of course I did not know at the time 
that there 

David. What ! — You hold the mortgage on my property ? 

Dick. Are you stating a fact, sir ? 

Squire. You seem to imply that that would be an unusual 
thing for me to do, — but I will let that pass. {Takes paper 
from pocket.) Here is the document; it will speak for itself. 

Dick. May I examine it? 

Squire. Certainly. (Dick hikes and examines paper.') I 
think your highly cultivated legal mind will hardly find a flaw 
in it, and {looking around) 1 have no doubt the property is 
good for the amount involved. 

Dick {handing it back). Yes, — it is true. 

Squire {returning it to his pocket). Um-m — thank you 
for your professional opinion. 

James {aside, coming down). Alford the owner of the 
mortgage on this peaceful home ? Then may God help them. 

(Tableau: — Squire, l. f., smiling; James by table R., 
looking sadly at family group ; tlie rest at desk as before 
indicated J Dick looking angrily at Squire.) 



CURTAIN 



ACT II 

SCENE. — Law}i of the Baijibridge home. House entraiice on 

L. ; across stage, back, a light fence ; road outside fe?ice ; 
practical gateway, c. of fence ; a swing back near gate ; 
small tree or two ; plants in tubs ; small settees, R. and L. 
Back drop outdoor scene. Bess, discovered sitting on set- 
tee, R., with book or sewing. 

Bess, {looking up). Poor father ! what a cruel blow this is 
to him — and to us all. To think we were so happy this morn- 
ing, and the future appeared so bright, and now {shaking her 
head sadly) I wonder what is in store for us? If I only knew. 
Poor Dicky, how can I tell him of my resolve? But it must 
be. We are both young and can wait. My first duty is to the 
dear ones who have hjved and cherished me through all the 
years of my life, and I will now have an opportunity to show 
them that all the love and sacrifice shall not be on one side. 
The loss of the money is bad enough, but that Squire Alford 
should have oblaincvl possession of the mortgage is worse. He 
must have known iliis all when he wrote that letter ! {Rises 
indignantly.) Why, of course he did — the wretch ! But I 
wonder if he thougiit that we — that 1 



Enter Dru. through gate. 

Dru. Good-evenin', Bessie. 

Bess. Good-evening. Won't you sit down, Aunt Drusie? 

Dru. Thank you, my dear ; jest for a minit or two. 
(Bess, resmnes her seat and work ; Dru. sits L.) I jest 
heard about th' trouble you was in. Whittier was tellin' me, 
so I thought I'd run down an' tell you how sorry I be for you. 
Is it true that Squire Alford has got a hold of that mortgage? 

Bess. Yes, Aunt Drusie, it is ; he showed it to us this 
morning; there is no doubt about his being in legal possession 
of it, so Dicky says. 

Dru. Well, it's a shame, so it is; but surely this other story 
I heard ain't so, is it? 

Bess, {wearily'). I do not know what you allude to — what 
story do you mean ? 

24 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 2$ 

Dru. Oh, I know it ain't so, but the way it come to me was 
that you was a-goin' to marry the old squire, an' if you did, 
then he was goin' to be kinder easy on your father about 

Bess, {indignantly). Of course it is not true ; who could 
have had so poor an opinion of me as to start such an absurd 
report ? 

Dru. There, that's jest what I told Lyddy Spooner — 'twas 
her that told me — an' she said that Squire Alford sorter hinted 
the thing to her Job only this afternoon. I told her smack off 
I didn't believe no such thing, although him tellin' Job made it 
seem pretty straight like, and 

Bess. Squire Alford is mistaken, or else he is deliberately, 
stating something he knows to be untrue. I have never given 
him 

Dru. Oh, if you say so, I know it's a lie, an' not the first 
one I have known to come from that quarter either. {Rises.) 
Well, I'm a-goin' into the house to see your pa an' ma. Now 
don't you go to gittin' down-hearted about this business, dear. 
I'm sure it will come out all right some way or 'nother. 

Bess. Thank you. Aunt Drusie. I am sure I hope so. 
(^Exit Dru. into house, l. ) The idea of his being so mean — 
so base, as to start this report under the circumstances. What 
I feared then is true ; he is going to. use his power to coerce 
me into accepting his proposal, and he has not even given me 
time to refuse him. Oh, how could he do such a thing ? 

\^Exit into house, l. 

Enter Tom. over the back fence. 

Tom. {out of breath). Whew ! Just had a race up the road 
with Whittier Jones. I hit him with a green apple and he put 
after me — Ha ! Ha ! I led him across a puddle in the road, 
and Whit tumbled in and got all covered with mud. Gee, you 
oughter see him ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! It was funny. {Looks 
dowji road.) Here he comes now. My, but he looks mad ! 
But I ain't afraid of him ; he can't scare me none; 1 know how 
to bring him 'round. 

{^Jumps into swing. Whit, enters gate ; he is all splashed 
with mud.) 

Whit. You young whelp ! Look at me — this is your 
work. 



26 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

Tom. {s2uinging idly). Ha ! Ha ! Whit, you look as if 
you had just slid into the home plate on a close decision, with 
two out and one run needed to tie the score. 

Whit. You come here and help get this mud off, you brat, 
or- I'll 

Tom. You quit callin' me names. \ didn't push you into 
the puddle. If you didn't have such big feet you'd 

Whit. You led me into it, anyway. 

Tom. Well, I'll help fix you up, but don't you try any funny 
business. (^Goes over; Whit, grabs for him; Tom. eludes 
hiffi.) Ya-a-h, smarty ; no you don't. Say, Whit, if I help 
fix you up real pretty, will you let me alone ? 

Whit. Well, I 

Tom. {returning to swing). All right ; if you think I'm 

Whit. No, I won't do anything. 

Tom. Honest Injun? {Comes over warily.) 

Whit. Yes, honest. 

Tom. I ain't got a handkerchief. 

Whit. Here, take mine. 

(Tom. starts to cleaii off mud.) 

Tom. (ivorking away). Say, Whit, I heard somebody say 
something about you the other day. 

Whit. Did you? Who was it, Tommy? 

Tom. {looking him over). There, now, you look quite 
respectable. {Goes back to swing.) 

\Vhit. {sitting L.). Who did you say it was? 

Tom. {sivingitig gently). Who what was? 

Whit. Why, you said you heard 

Tom. Oh, yes, I heard somebody say something about your 
po'try. 

Whit, {coaxingly). Who was it, Tommy — what did she 
say ? 

Tom. I didn't say 'twas a she, did I? , 

Whit. Oh, come now — that's a good little boy. 

Tom. Say, look here, who be you callin' little? I 

Whit. Excuse me, I didn't mean that. 

Tom. Do you want to know real bad, Whit ? 

Whit. Of course I do. 

Tom. Well, you come and push me, an' I'll tell you. 

(Whit, goes over and swings him ; they continue talking 
7neanwhile.) 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 27 

Whit. Come, now, tell me who it was. 

Tom. Wait, Whit ; wait till I tell you what she said first. 

Whit. Oh, it was a lady, was it? {Aside.) I was sure I 
would make an impression, once she knew to whom my senti- 
ments were addressed. 

Tom. Yep, it was a woman all right — and she said your 
pomes were the real thing. 

Whit. The real thing ? 

Tom. Yep, outer sight, y' know — the regular candy goods. 

Whit. I don't exactly understand — I 

Tom. What, don't you know English? Well, maybe them 
wasn't just her words, but 'twas what she meant. 

Whit. Oh, I see. 

Tom. U-huh. She said your verses contained such tender 
sentiment — they had so much soul into them. 

Whit, {eagerly). Did she ? 

Tom. Sure — that's what ; an' she said you was wastin' 
your sweetness on the desert air here in Elmwood — and you'd 
be heard from some day. 

(Whit, leaves swing ; comes down r. ; aside.) 

Whit. She has recognized my genjus at last, — perhaps my 
devotion. I need hardly ask her name — 1 know — I feel 

Tom. {standijig by fence). Want to know who 'twas, Whit? 

Whit. I think I can guess, but you may tell me if you 
wish. 

(Tom. vaults fence.) 



Tom. {edging off ). Well, it was 

Whit. Yes ? 

Tom. It was — your Aunt Drusie. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! 

(^Rtins doivn the road, l. Whit, starts to folloiv, hut comes 
back.) 

Whit. The young scapegrace ! He made that up. 

(Sits R. and takes manuscript from pocket ; reads to himself.) 

Enter James through gate, from r., with Dick. 

James. Now, my dear boy, pray do not let this silly gossip 
disturb you ; it is the utmost nonsense. 

Dick. I know that, Mr. Wentworth, but it makes my blood 



28 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

boil to think of such talk going on around the village. I must 
see Bessie at once. 

James. That's right ; but do not say anything to further 
agitate this poor family if you can avoid it. They have enough 
to bear now. 

Dick (^grasping his handy No fear of that ; do not have 
any anxiety on that score, my dear old friend. I know our 
hearts and sympathies are one in this matter. 

\^Exit into house, L. 

James. Poor boy, — poor friends ! I fear this is but too 
true — there is no villainy of which this man is not capable. 
But there must be some way to balk him in this thing he con- 
templates — there shall be, even if my own cherished hopes 
crumble into dust. If the worst must come, then I will cheer- 
fully abide the results, be they what they may, for the sake of 
these dear people whose home has been a haven of refuge for 
me during these many peaceful yeais, even though it may mean 
the sundering of the ties which bind me so closely to them. 

{Di'ops into seat, L.) 

Whit, {looking up from his fnanuscript'). Ah, good-even- 
ing, Mr. Wentworth. 

James. How do you do, AVhittier ? I did not see you. 

Whit. No ; I was absorbed in my manuscript. May I 
venture to — ah — read this to you, Mr, Wentworth ? I have 
great respect for your literary judgment, and I would very 
much like to have your opinion on it before I — ah 

James. Certainly, my boy, if you think my poor opinion is 
worth anything. (Shakes his head aside. ^ 

Whit, (reading]. '* To one who will understand. 

" The bee that from the clover bloom 
The sticky honey sips, 
Drinks nothing half so sweet, my love, 
As honey of thy lips. 

(James throivs up hands and shakes head aside.^ 

And all the little stars at night. 

Which twinkle in the sky, 
Glow not so bright as does, my sweet, 

Thy blue and " 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 29 

James. Pardon me a moment, my dear boy, but does this 
— er — poem have any personal application ? 

Whit. Why — ah — perhaps it 

James {laying his hand on Whit.'s shoulder). Now listen 
to me. You have asked my opinion, and you shall have it, 
even though it may affect the kindly relations which have here- 
tofore existed between us. 

Whit. Do not fear anything of that kind, sir. I have too 
high a regard for you to allow 

James. I am glad to hear you say this, for, to borrow an 
expression of our poor friend David Bainbridge, the stuff which 
you write is the "veriest rot," and the sooner you disabuse 
your mind of the idea that it will ever yield you anything be- 
yond a little local notoriety, the better it will be for you. 
Why, the people who publish the leading periodicals of the day 
would not use such matter to kindle their fires with. (Whit. 
sinks dejectedly into seat.) It is simply hopeless from a liter- 
ary standpoint. I am sorry if this hurts you, but it is better to 
apply the knife while there is yet time to effect a cure, than it 
is to wait until the disease is past remedy. I think your Aunt 
Drucilla is much to blame for having flattered you all these 
years.' And there is another thing ; we will mention no names, 
but when I asked you if this — this poem had a personal appli- 
cation, you know what I meant. Let me tell you there is no 
hope in that quarter — absolutely none — so don't think of it — 
or, as Tommy says — ''forget it ; " try to bring your mind to 
the idea of taking up some useful occupation for which you 
are better fitted. I know there is good timber in you — 

you are young, and {Enter Mary fro7n hotise, l., 

with basket on her arm.) Ah, here is Mary. Good-evening, 
Mary. 

Mary. How do you do ? I was just going down to the 
garden to get some vegetables, and 

James. Well, here is Whittier. I know he is only waiting 
for an invitation to go along and carry that basket. 

Mary. Oh, perhaps Mr. Whittier is more pleasantly en- 
gaged. 

Whit. Not at all ; I shall be most happy. Allow me. 
{Takes basket ; they go R. ; Whit, returns and takes James's 
hand.) I want to thank you for what you have just said. I 
believe you are right, sir. I will think it over and 

James. That's right, and come to me at any time if you 
think I can be helpful in any way 



30 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 



{Looks at Mary ; takes Whit, aside and says something in 
a low tone.) 

Whit, {aside, also glancing at Mary). Do you think so? 

James {laughing). How blind you are. She is a good, 
sweet girl. Now don't keep her waiting any longer. {Pushes 
him R. ; Mary and Whit, exeunt r., together. Enter David 
from house, l.) David, have you seen any of the other people 
who were interested in the mining scheme ? May there not be 
some mistake, after all ? 

David. No, James, the letter from Simpson came in this 
evening's mail, and he says that while the property is all right, 
— in fact, will pay handsome returns — this rascally agent, by 
his knowledge of the mining laws and by manipulation of the 
stock, has succeeded in getting il all into the hands of himself 
and some one in the background, and has thus swindled the 
honest investors out of all they put into it — another specimen 
of modern high finance. 

James. Perhaps there is some hope yet. 

David. I wish I could think so, but there is little hope in 
fighting swindlers whom our laws protect. 

James. Well, don't be down-hearted. Let us walk down 
toward the river and talk over the situation together. 

\^Exeunt together, R. 

Enter Dick aiid Bess, from house, l. 

Bess. It is no use to argue the matter, Dicky ; my mind is 
made up on this point. 

Dick. But surely, Bessie, we can do as much for your par- 
ents if we are married as you could by going away, and be- 
sides 

Bess. No, you know that is impossible. I shall work for 
them now as long as they need me. I know the many sacri- 
fices they have made in the past in order that my education 
might be completed, and now I will show them that they were 
not made in vain. I know of a position which I can have, and 
I have already written about it. We can wait — we must wait. 

Dick. But think what this means to me, dear. I 

Bess. To you ? Does it not mean more to me ? Don't 
be selfish, Dicky ; think of me and my dear ones in 
trouble. {Handkerchief.') 

Dick. Forgive me, dear, I was wrong. It shall be as you 
say, and if it must be, I will wait for years, cheered by the 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 3 I 

thought that when the happy time does come, it will bring to 
me the best and the sweetest little woman on earth. 

( Takes her in his arms and kisses her ; they then stroll off 
together, R. Squire appears beyond gate, back, during 
Dick's last speech; he listens and observes ; comes down 
after they exeunt.^ 

Squire {looking after them'). Oh, fine — very fine, indeed ! 
Umph ! I was not mistaken — they are engaged; but if they 
think I will allow a little matter like that to stand in my way 
they do not know me. I have swept stronger men from my 
path than this young whippersnapper, and what I have done I 
can do again. I think my young lady will change her views 
in regard to the choice of a husband when she faces the alter- 
native of seeing her family facing the loss of a home and the 
means of livelihood as well, — perhaps compelled to leave "dear 
old Elrawood." {Laughs.) Oh, I think I have the situation 
well in hand. {Enter Mrs. B. from house, L.) Ah, good- 
evening, Elizabeth. I {Bows.') 

Mrs. B. Mrs. Bainbridge to you, sir. To what do we owe 
the honor of this visit ? 

Squire. Pray pardon me, madam — I thought that old 
friendship might entitle me to 

Mrs. B. Old acquaintance, if you wish, but please do not 
make use of a word of which you never knew the meaning. 
But there, I trust you will excuse me. I do not desire to 
quarrel with or seem discourteous to a guest ; my heart is too 
greatly burdened just now. Will you be seated ? I would 
like to talk with you a moment about this mortgage. 

(Squire sits r., Mrs. B. l.) 

Squire {ve^-y pleasantly). Certainly — certainly, my dear 
madam ; to tell the truth, it was about that little matter I came 
around here this evening — in fact to say that you and David 
need give yourselves no uneasiness on that score. I obtained 
the mortgage by the merest chance — a — a business transaction, 
you know, and like all matters of business, this whole thing can 
be arranged to the great advantage of all concerned, by mutual 
agreement. 

Mrs. B. {aside). How easy it is to divine his evil intent ! 
But it shall never be — never ! {To Squire.) Squire Alford, 
when is this mortgage due ? 



32 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

Squire. Oh, I don't know ; but it tloesn't matter in the 
least ; long before that time 1 will 

Mrs. B. I wish to know ; will you kindly answer my 
question ? 

Squire. Well, I believe it has three months more to run. 

Mrs. B. I suppose you would be willing to extend it, if we 
cannot meet it at that time ? 

Squire (^generously). 1 will do better than that; I will 
cancel — destroy it to-night, if David and you 

Mrs. B. {coldly'). No, there is no reason for you to do 
that — it is a just obligation, and there will be some way, 1 
know 

Squire. Come, don't let us temporize ; it is but a waste 
of time. You know the conditions I attach to the cancellation 
of the mortgage I hold on this property and business, do you 
not? 

Mrs. B. Perhaps. Oh, I feared 

Squire. Your daughter has told you of my proposal ? 

Mrs. B. She has, although she did not intend doing so at 
first. But this — after this 

Squire. She did quite right — quite right. Of course, 
some might think there was a little disparity in our ages, but 
that is only a matter of sentiment after all, and sentiment has 
to stand aside with us of maturer years, when it encounters — 
er — I might say business considerations, and expediency in 
matrimonial affairs. 

Mrs. B. But surely you do not intend to press this matter 
now, just because you happen to have it in your power to dic- 
tate terms to us? 

Squire. Why make use of such harsh language ? I mean 
well by the girl — she will have all that a woman's heart can 
desire 

Mrs. B. "All"? No, not all. What do you know of 
the desires of a good woman's heart? Bessie has now all that 
a true woman seeks — the love of an honest, manly heart; 
what is all that you offer compared to this ? 

Squire. Bah ! a poor young cub of a lawyer. Do you 
think he will stand in my way ? 

Mrs. B. (rising). It is useless to prolong this discussion. 
Squire Alford. Bessie will marry Dick, — when, I do not 
know, but at some time, you may rest assured — and when she 
does 

Squire (rising), I advise you to think well before 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 33 

Mrs. B. We have thought well — and as for you, it matters 
not what course you may choose to pursue in regard to the 
mortgage ; that will be for you to decide, but should you do 
your worst, it would make no difference; the hand of a pure 
young girl like Bessie Bainbridge is not for a man of the char- 
acter of Francis Alford. 

Squire. You think so, do you ? Well, wait ; at all events, 
I see that time has not changed those highfalutin ideas of yours. 
I have not forgotten the day you turned me down for the 
"poverty-stricken ink-slinger" whom you married. Time 
may have dulled, but it has never obliterated the memory of 
your choice. I said then that the time would come when you 
would have cause to regret that day, and now — now, fate has 
so played into my hand that I am able, if I choose, to bring 
about the fulfilment of my own prophecy. 

Mrs. B. Never ! I repeat, — never will you have the power 
to make me regret it. Rather have I thanked God every day 
of my life that he gave me to David Bainbridge, a man whose 
dearest possession is that which your wealth can never buy — 
the love, and the esteem of all who know him. 

Enter David and James, r. 

Squire (^shaking his cane, afigrily).- Well, he'll need all 
the friends he's got before I get through with him. 

David (coming between them, sternly). What does this 
mean, Alford? What was he saying, mother? 

Mrs. B. He came here to follow up that letter which he 
sent to Bessie. I have told hrni that we 

David. Wait a moment. Squire Alford, are you really in 
earnest in this matter? 

Squire. I am. I want the girl and I think it would be 
wise for you to consent. 

David. Consent ? Consent to our daughter marrying you, 
whose whole career has been a shame and a reproach to honest 
manhood ? No, we would sooner see her sleeping peacefully 
under the trees, over on the green hill yonder, than wedded to 
you, and I warn you — : — 

James. David, David, don't say anything you may have 
cause to 

Squire {angrily^. Let him say what he chooses ; it will all 
go into the reckoning which will come when this house and 
all it contains goes under the hammer. 



34 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

David. Until that time does come, however, this house is 
mine, and it is for me to say who is welcome here. 

{Points toward the gate. ) 

Enter Whit, and Mary, r., Whit, carries basket of 
f^arden stuff. They cross and stand back l. Dick and 
Bess, follow them, aiid stop r., listening. 

Squire (lualking to gate and turning back^. Very well, it is 
your turn now, but mine will come later — in three months. 

Enter Tom. at gate, running ; he has a paper in his hand, 
and bumps into Squire /;/ his haste. 

Tom. Here is the evening paper from the city, Mr. Bain- 
bridge, with the account of the accident, and the tramp's story 
in it. 

Dick (stepping forward). Let me have it, Tommy, please. 
I would like to see if they have it straight. (Takes paper.) I 
was about to read it this morning, when that telegram came 
and put it out of my mind. 

Bess. Read it to us now, Dicky. 

David. Yes, let us hear it, Dick. Poor fellow ! his troubles 
are over at least. 

(Dru. comes out of house l. , afid remains by Mary as Dick 
reads paper. Squire stands listeni?ig also Just outside 
gate.) 

Dick. ''Fatal accident on the rail, in the village of Elm- 
wood. A strange story." Um-m — you know all about the ac- 
cident. I'll not read that part, only the deposition — here it is : 
" Realizing that he had but a short time to hve, he asked for a 
notary, to whom he dictated the following statement : ' Twenty- 
three years ago I assisted in the robbery of a bank in a small 
city in one of the Eastern states. My partner in the crime was 
a resident of the place and a supposed respected citizen. He 
furnished all needed information, skeleton keys, etc. (Squire 
listening infejitly, co7nes forward sloivly, and as though uncon- 
sciously. James, at the 7vord ^^ robbery'" drops on settee^., 
appearing agitated, and ivith his chin i?i his hand, listens to the 
recital), and 1 did the job. He took charge of the cash — a 
large sum — but before we could divide, I was arrested, tried for 
the crime, convicted and sentenced for twenty years. The 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 35 

Other man was not suspected , and 1 did not peach on him, as he 
promised to divide with my family and look out for them while 
I was doing time ; but after many years I found out that he had 
lied to me. He kept the money himself, and as 1 have since 
learned, contrived to throw suspicion on another party — an in- 
nocent man, who by his false testimony was also convicted of 
complicity in the robbery — but who succeeded in escaping from 
jail before hecould be sentenced, and was never recaptured. My 
real accomplice married within a year, and left for parts un- 
known. Since my release from prison 1 have spent nearly three 
years trying to get a trace of this man, so that 1 might see him 
brought to justice, and the name of an innocent man cleared of 
crime ; but my search is now ended by this accident which I 
know is fatal. I had found a clue* (Squire starts) which led 
in this direction, but now — quick, take down these names — 
mine is Jim Foster, the — oh, 1 am afraid I can't — the innocent 
man {both Squire and James listen intently here) was — Allen 
— Allen Ormsby, and the other, — who did for us both, was — 

was ' At this point the unfortunate man expired without 

revealing the state, city, or name of the one person most essen- 
tial to the carrying out of his purpose, so this will probably 
nullify any attempts which might otherwise be made to establish 
the truth of this very strange story." 

(Squire draws a deep breath, removes hat, mops face with 
handkerchief ; James watches hint ujiob served.) 

> 
Mrs. B. What a strange story. 
David. Strange, indeed. 

Squire {sneeringly). Bah ! A lot of balderdash. The 
poor fool was probably out of his mind. 

( Goes out gate, pauses and watches the others, who exeunt ; 
Whit, and Dru. go out gate and off r. ; Tom. goes out 
gate and off l. ; the others exeu?it into house, l.) 

James (t-isino^; aside). At last — at last, the truth ! It was 
as I always suspected. JVoiv 

Squire (returning). See here. You heard what was said 
here a while ago ? I suppose they are determined to opi)ose my 
marrying the girl. Well, I think I can stand it, if they can 
{laughing), but what I want to say to you is this : When this 
mortgage is due, I shall of course foreclose ; that will make me 
manager, or at any rate proprietor, of the business, Ehnwood 



36 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

Item and all, and when 1 am, your services will not be required 
around here, so you may look upon tliis as a notice to leave, 
and you may consider yourself fortunate to get it so far in 
advance. 

James. \Vhen that time arrives, you need have no fear of 
my seeking to remain in the employ of one who oppresses the 
innocent and the unfortunate — whose past record is stained 
wilh 

Squire. Have a care, sir. What do you know of my past 
record ? I never saw or heard of you until you tramped into 
El in wood. 

James (Jiotly), You ask what I know? I will tell you. By 
a strange coincidence I have learned to-day what I have long 
suspected to be the truth, but which I have never been able to 
prove. You have just heard the story of this unfortunate man, 
who 

Squire. The ravings of a disordered brain ; it did not in- 
terest me. 

James. It will interest you, perhaps, when I charge you 
with being the man alluded to — the man whose name remained 
unspoken. 

Squire {startled^. You lie ! You shall pay for this. I'll 

(^Threatens with his cane.') 

James. I do not lie. No one knows better than you that I 
tell the truth. 

Squire. I know you are as crazy as this tramp — this fool. 
Who are you, who dares to make this slanderous statement 
against the foremost citizen of Elmwood ? 

James. Who am I? {^Laughs bitterly.') No wonder you 
ask ; the marks of suffering which have been imprinted on my 
face hy your treacliery have proven an effectual disguise through 
all these years ; but look at me closely, Francis Alford — thief 
and robber, not of money alone, but of the honor and good 
name of an innocent man — and worse than that, the deceiver 
of his wife, and abductor of his child. (Squire retreats.) No 
wonder you cringe before me, the victim of your infamy and 
lust. Do I need to say who I am ? Do I need to speak the 
name ? 

Squire (^shaking). No, no ! You are not 

(Sifiks into seat overcome.) 
James. I am — Allen Ormsby, the man who was ruined by 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 37 

your false testimony twenty-three years ago — the man whose 
wife you took froui him by your lying tongue — the man who, 
learning that the woman he loved, and whom you deceived, 
was dead of a broken heart, came here where he might be near 
and watch over the only being left on earth for him to love — 
the boy whom you stole away from him. And the man who 
has been waiting all these years for the day to come when he 
could tear the mask from your false face and hold you up to 
the scorn and contempt which you so justly merit 

Squire {j-ecovering ; starts up angrily). This is all a pack 
of lies. You have trumped up this yarn as a means of injuring 
me in the eyes of my neighbors, and besides (^forgetting him- 
self) Ormsby is dead. I heard 

James. Ah! Then you admit ? 

Squire. I admit nothing. {^With a sudden thought.') But 
what if I did ? Suppose I admitted a part of what you say — 
what proof have you of these charges ? What weight do you 
think the story of a tramp printer, and the disjointed and in- 
complete statement of another fool of the same stripe, would 
have against that of Squire Alford, the richest man in the 
county? I defy you — yes, you — if you are this man^ — this 
OrmslDy, for then by your own confession you are an escaped 
convict, a fugitive from justice, and a word from me to the 
proper authorities in — in — well, you know where — would result 
in your being taken back to the jail from which you fled. 
(James sits down ; thinks deeply ; Squire follows up his ad- 
vantage.) Oh, this is no one man's game we are playing ; 
there are hands here for two (^ going and standing by the gate), 
and we will see who holds the higher cards, you or I. 

{Tableau: Squire by gate looking triumphant; James on 
settee y r., with face buried in hands.) 



CURTAIN 



ACT III 

SCENE. — A parlor in the Bainbridge home. Plainly but 
tastefully furnished. Three months are supposed to have 
elapsed between Acts II and III. Mary discovered siveep- 
ing and arranging furniture. Door in fiat back c, 

Mary. Oh, dear, this -does not seem like the sameplape 
here that it was before, now that all this trouble about that old 
mortgage has had to come to the family. J. don't know what 
they are going to do, and I'm afraid they don't know them- 
selves. I hate to think of leaving them ; they have always 
been so kind to me that it seems like leaving my own home. 
But Mrs. Bainbridge says they will likely have to give the place 
up to Squire Alford. The old miser ! I don't see how any 
one can be such an old wretch as he is. I wish he would come 
in {turning to door c.') that door now {raising brooni), I'd 

Enter Whit, at door c. 

Whit, {dodging brooni). Hold on there, Mary ! Did you 
take me for a book agent, or a census taker, or somebody of 
that sort ? 

Mary {/aughiiig'). No, Whittier ; worse than that, I guess. 
I was just thinking of Squire Alford, and how I would like to 
give him what he deserves. 

Whit, {laughing). I thought you appeared rather warlike ; 
but I hardly know whether to feel complimented or not at 
being taken for our great fellow citizen. 

Mary. Great scoundrel would be a more fitting term for 
him. 

Whit. I'll not dispute that ; however, I think it would take 
more than a common broom wielded by such dainty hands as 
yours to do the subject justice. 

Mary {pleased at the compliment'). Now, Whittier, don't 
you go to being foolish. How is everything going down at the 
store, now? 

Whit. Very satisfactorily for me. I like the place, and 
Mr. Smith is a fine man to work for, I tell you. 

{He sits R. Mary resumes her work.) 

38 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 39 

Mary. But it does not give you much time for your literary 
work though, does it ? 

Whit. Well, no, it does not ; but to tell the truth, I am so 
busy I do not seem to have time to think of such things any 
more ; and as Mr. Smith has promised me a better position at 
the end of the half year, I think business will claim my atten- 
tion, to the exclusion of that which 1 have now learned to look 
upon as a foolish fancy. 

Mary. 1 am so glad. Mr. Wentvvorth always said you had 
ability, if it could only be directed into the proper channels. 

Whit, {warmly). Mr. Wentworth was a fine old man, 
Mary. I owe all this to him — to his good advice — and his 
influence with Mr. Smith. 

Mary. It seems so strange here without him in the house. 
It is now nearly three months since he went away so suddenly. 

Whit. Have they had no word from him in that time ? 

Mary, Not that I know of ; and with Miss Bessie away too, 
it does not seem like the same place. {She sits l.) 

Whit. I understand she is expected home to-day. 

Mary. Yes, this is the day, you know, that has been set 
by Squire Alford for a final decision on the mortgage. But 
what can they do ? It is easy to foresee the result, isn't it? 
A shame to think of their actually being turned out of their 
own home at their time of life ! {Tears. ^ It makes my heart 
ache. 

Whit. 'Tis a shame, indeed. I cannot understand Alford's 
reason for being so relentless. 

Mary. Ugh ! don't speak of him. Mrs. Bainbridge says 
I will have to look for another place, and how can I find one ? 
I have tried, but 

Whit, {rising). Don't let that disturb you, dear. Of 
course I have expected this, and — and, in fact, I have a place 
in view for you 

Mary {rising). Why, Whittier, — you ? 

Whit. Yes, and one which 1 think — or at least I hope — you 
will like even better than this. 

Mary {astonished). How could you have heard, when 

Whit. Oh, I happen to know of some one who has been 
living at quiie a distance from the village, but who for business 
reasons finds it necessary to live in town. This — er — person 
of whom I speak will need a housekeeper, and he would 

Mary {inquiringly). He? 



40 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 



^VHIT. {coming over and taking her hands ). Yes, he, dear ; 
can you not guess whom I mean ? 

Mar V ( looking down ) . W hy — no, that is, — I 

Whit, {lifting up her chin ; looks in her eyes). Can't you 
guess, little girl ? 

Mary {dropping her face to his shoulder') . Oh, Whittier ! 

(Tom. appears r. ; gives a lofig whistle.') 

Tom. Oh, Whit, what will Aunt Drusie say ? 
Mary {^jumping away). You little torment ! 

(^Grabs broom ajid chases Tom. around room. They all 
laugh.) 

Whit, {ivith arm around Mary). Oh, I don't think it will 
make any difference what any one thinks, will it, Mary ? 

Tom. Say, Mary, will there be frosted cake at the weddin' ? 

Mary {charging with broo7?i). Get out, you little imp. 

\_Exit Tom., c. d. 

Whit, {laughing; consults watch). I must go — time I was 
at the store. Good-bye, dear. {Kisses her.) 

Mary {removing apron). Wait — I'll walk a little way with 
you. \They exeunt c. d., together. 

Enter David and Mrs. B., l. 

David. It's no use, mother {dropping into chair , as she 
stands beside him), I have been trying everywhere to raise 
enough money to get the mortgage out of his hands, but it 
simply can't be done. All of my friends who would ordinarily 
be glad of a chance to balk Alford, are as hard hit by this 
mining business as we are. They are willing enough, but their 
hands are tied. 

Mrs. B. Is he coming here to-day ? 

David. I believe so ; but he had much better stay away. 
It will only result in another row, like all our former "negoti- 
ations," as he calls this damnable proposition of his. 

Mrs. B. Hush, David ! 

David. I can't help using strong language, mother, when I 
think of this infernal scheme by which he thought to coerce our 
Bessie into marrying him — the old 

Mrs. B. David, — don't say anything you will regret. You 
know I feel as you do — and of course our answer and Bessie's 



ELM WOOD FOLKS 4 1 

will always be the same. Dear girl, it is nearly time for her 
train, is it not ? 

David. Yes. Dick is at the station waiting to bring her up. 

Mrs. B. Poor boy ! 

David. Yes ; but do you know, I believe Dick is the most 
cheerful one of us all Sometimes I think 

{Pauses thoughtfully,) 

Mrs. B. {after a moment). What ? 

David. Oh, it's absurd, of course, but I have had a feeling 
lately that there must be some reason why Dick appeared so 
much more hopeful than the rest of us ; not so much from any- 
thing he has said, as from his manner. 

Mrs. B. I have noticed it too, but there can be no reason 
for it, I am sure, only the natural hopefulness of youth. Bessie 
seems the same, judging from her letters. It is just their way 
of trying to cheer us up. Bless their hearts ! Hark ! I think 
I hear them coming now. 

{Voices heard outside; David and Mrs. B. start for door 
c, as Dick and Bess, enter.) 

Bess. Mother ! {They embrace.) 

David. Well, little girl, home again at last. {Kisses her.) 

Bess. Yes, father, home at last. How good it is. 

{Pauses.) 

David {turning azoay ; shakes his head). It does indeed 
seem good, my child ; but how long shall we have a — a — home 
for you to come to ? 

{Chokes ; drops into a chair.) 

Bess, {kneeling beside him). Dear father, don't — don't; 
let us forget about it for a little while. I feel sure there will be 
some way 

Dick {cheerfully). Yes, Mr. Bainbridge, ** where there's 
life there's hope," you know. There is still one more day, 
and sometimes a good deal may happen in a very short space 
of time. I must go now {co7isulting watch) ; it is time for the 
afternoon mail, and I am expecting — er — we are quite busy at 
the office, so good-day. Good-bye, Bessie; I will be back as 
soon as I can. 

Bess, {rising, joins Mrs. B.). Good-bye, Dicky. 



42 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

David. Good-bye, my boy. (^Exit Dick, c. d.) Ah, my 
dear, Dick is one of the best. We have learned his true value 
during the last three months, — always cheerful, always helpful, 
and since James left us so suddenly, he has seemed to be more 
like our own than before. 

Bess. How strange it was, the way Mr. Wentworth left 
here. Have you heard nothing from him yet ? 

David. Only once — a week after he went, I think. I have 
the letter. {Takes letters from pocket a?id selects one.') 
Yes, here it is. {Reads.) " My dear David: 1 hope you 
will pardon my rather unceremonious departure, and that you 
will believe me when I say it was rendered necessary by reasons 
vi^hich I am not now at liberty to state. I cannot say when I 
shall return to Elmwood ; it is my intention to do so, but it 
may be that I may never come back. In that event I wish to 
thank you and yours for all you have done in the past to 
make the life of a lonely old man a pleasant thing for him 
to remember during the few years which may yet be his. May 
heaven's choicest blessings be yours. James Wentworth." 

Bess. What a mysterious letter ! There must have been 
something {a knock at the door unheeded by theni) very urgent, 
which called him away. 

Mrs. B. I have said all along that a man like James 

( A louder knock. Bess, starts for door as Squire enters.) 

Squire. Humph ! Sorry to intrude on such a happy little 
family reunion. I heard Miss Elizabeth had returned, and as 
I was going by the door I thought 1 would dro|:» in and inquire 
how the ''strenuous life " was agreeing with her. How is the 
school, my dear? Plenty of hard work, eh? I rather think 
you find working for a living rather different from what you 
expected — quite different in fact, from what I offered. 

(David starts forward ; Mrs. B. restrains him.) 

Bess, {interrupting; with dignity). On the contrary, I 
like my school and my work very much ; there are things 
which {meaningly) are much worse than earning an honest 
living. 

Squire {sneeringly). Of course — of course. I would not 
expect you to admit anything of the sort. 

David. I think you have said all that we care to listen to 
at the present time, if this is all you have paid us this visit for; 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 43 

if, though, you have at last concluded to be more reasonable 
and grant me an extension until I can 

Squire. In regard to that matter, my former proposition is 
still open ; if your daughter will reconsider what I have no 
doubt she now sees was an unwise resolution on her part, I will 
return this er — document to you — cancelled, or will burn it in 
your presence, as you may choose. There is yet ample time ; 
it does not fall due until to-morrow, you know. 

Bess. You may spare yourself further words. - Your propo- 
sition is an insult ; I have told you this before, and I now repeat 
it, with all the emphasis at my command. I would rather work 
all the rest of my life, and die a single woman, than purchase 
our release from your remorseless grasp at such a price. 

Squire. Bah ! You are quite dramatic, young woman. 
You remind me of that sneaking tramp printer who left Ehn- 
wood with such suspicious haste some time ago. Probably you 
got your lessons from him — however, I will give you a little 
longer to talk it over. 

{Consults watch; goes toward door.') 

David. Stop ! I will not hear a good man slandered by 
you who is not here to defend himself. James Wentworlh 
is a man who is respected by every one, a man who is all that 
you are not, and you know it. 

Squire {cingrily). I do not know it, but I'll tell you {re- 
turning) what I do know. I know this saint of yours is an 
escaped convict — a jail breaker, a 

Mrs. B. What do you mean ? 

Squire. I mean only what I can prove, and what he knew 
I would prove, had he dared to stay here and give me the 
opportunity. 

David. It's false ! As fals^ as you are yourself, Squire 
Alford 

Enter Dru. and Mary, c. d. Mary exit l. Dru. remains. 

Squire. It is a fact. This fellow, whom you have thought 
to be a model of all the mj^nly virtues, has deceived you. I 
knew him at the time he was convicted of robbing a bank a 
good many years ago — knew of his escape from the just venge- 
ance of the law. I did not recognize him, however, until just 
before he left here, ns he had changed not only his appearance 
but his name as well. But in an unguarded moment he be- 



44 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

trayed himself to me, and when I accused him of all this he did 
not deny it, but left Ehnwood as soon as possible, and no doubt 
is now the tramp he was before he came here. 

Bess. We will never believe this — this slanderous story of 
yours. 

Squire. Believe it or not, as you choose, but look at his 
conduct ; think it over, and see if the evidence is not in favor 
of my statement. I am obliged to leave now, but will be back 
after a while, for even now I believe your best interests will in- 
fluence you to come around to my way of thinking. 



(^Goes to door c.) 



David. 

Mrs. B. \ Never ! 



Bess. ) 

Squire (jaughing). Oh, well, we'll see — we'll see. 

[^Exit, c. D. 

Dru. Huh! Called him a robber, did he? 1 guess if the 
truth was told about Alford himself, he wouldn't dare to call 
anybody a robber, least of all a good man like Mr. Wentworth. 
It was sort of queer like though about his leavin' Elmwood so 
*'suddent," and now I come to think of it, 1 wonder if that 
story of the tramp's which Dick read out'n the newspaper had 
anything to do with it. Gracious me ! Don't you mind how 
funny he acted when Dick was a-tellin' of it first in the //<?;;/ 
office that mornin' ? Didn't he git faint or somethin' ? I 
thought you said somethin' of the kind. 

David. That's true. Aunt Drusie, now you speak of it ; I 
believe I do remember something about that, don't you, 
mother ? 

Mrs. B. Yes, but I think he said the heat affected him. 

Dru. That's so, Elizabeth, but it didn't affect none o' the 
rest of you, did it? 

Bess. It was merely a coincidence, nothing more. 

David {thoughtfully). Of course — of course. 

Dru. Yes, p'raps; but that same evenin', when the hull 

story come out in the paper, I happened {To herself .) 

Well, now, ain't that queer? 

Mrs. B. Isn't what queer? 

Dru. Why, when Dick was readin' the paper, I happened 
to be a-standin' where I could see them both — Squire Alford 
and Mr. Wentworth, you know. I ain't never thought nothin' 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 45 

about it since until this minit, but I mind now that both of 'em 
looked mighty queer, and sorter upset. Likely I'd never 
thought of it, though, if it hadn't a-been for what he said just 
now. Well, I got to be a-movin'. I'm goin' down to Smith's. 
Whittier and I'll drop in a minit on our way home if 'tain't too 
late. Good-bye. 

Mrs. B. (^seeing her to the door). Good-bye, Aunt Drusie; 
look out for that lower step. 

Enter Tom. , r. ; throws his cap on a chair. 

Bess. Why, here's Tommy ! (^Kisses him.) 
Tom. Gee ! but it's good to see you again, Miss Bessie. 
Bess. And 1 am glad to see you, dear ; bless your heart. 
Mrs. B. Where have you been, Tommy? 

(Tom. sits on chair swinging his feet.) 

Tom. Down to the station to see the train come in. I saw 
Dick down there. 

Bess. Did you ? 

Tom. Yep. He had a rig. Guess he was waitin' for 
somebody. 

David. What makes you think so? He didn't say anything 
about any one coming on this train when he was here, did he, 
Bess ? 

Bess. I think not. 

Tom. Somebody did, though. 

David. Did you see who it was? 

Tom. No, sir. They must have got in the rig when I was 
down lookin' at the engine, but I saw them drivin' up the street 
afterward — Dick and two other men ; they got out and went 
into his office before I caught up to 'em. Dick saw me as I 
was goin' by, though, and hollered out to me to tell you he was 
comin' up to supper. 

Mrs. B. Well, run along now and wash your face, for it 
will soon be ready. 

Tom. Yes, ma'am. \_Exit^ l. 

Mrs. B. What do you think of all this, David? 

David. Of what, mother? Oh, you mean what Aunt 
Drusie said, I suppose? Just her talk, I guess. I didn't no- 
tice anything that night — suppose I was thinking too much 
about my own trouble to notice anything else ; but if she is 
right, — taking it all together, it looks rather strange, I must 
confess. 



46 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

Bess. But surely you don't think there is any truth in the 
story ? 

David. No, Bess, I cannot think so ; at least, not in the 
way Allord would have us believe; but it there should be, then 
you may be sure he has distorted the facts in a way to injure 
James, whom he has always hated, just as a man of his nature 
hates any one who is his moral superior. 

Mrs. B. Your father is right, Bessie; nothing Squire Alford 
could say would make me believe 

( Voices heard outside ; Tom. greeting soffie o?ie Joyfully.') 

Tom. (^entering, c. d.). Didn't 1 tell you I saw 

Enter Dick, c. v*., followed by James. 

Dick. Here he is ; didn't I say 

{All sitrroimd ]\^\ES, whom they greet warmly ; Tom. runs 
off I..) 

David. Well, well, James, old fellow, welcome back, or 
rather welcome home, — for this is your home as long as 

James {grasping his> hand). Thank you, David, thank 
you. Do you think 1 would have returned had I not felt sure 
of this kind reception, this — this 

{Turns away, unable to proceed ; Dick and Bess, converse 
aside. ) 

Mrs. B. It is no more than we feel, James, you may rest 
assured ; but tell us where you have been all this time ? We 
have not been able to understand why you went away so sud- 
denly. 

James. That is a long story, my dear friends, but one which 
I have returned to tell you ; my departure was somewhat abrupt, 
I admit, but my reasons for it were such that it seemed the right 
course for me to take at that time. I will explain it all in as 
few words as possible. You of course remember 

Enter Whit, and Dru., c. d. ; they exchange greetings with 
James. 

Whit. Mr. Wentworth, we heard of vour return, and so 
stopped in to see you. Welcome back to Elm wood. 

James. Thank you both. I am glad to be back, I am 



ELMWOOD FOLKS 47 

sure, and now that you are here, I would like you to remain 
a Httle while, for the story I have to tell is one I wish all 
my friends to hear. {Turns to the others.) As 1 wa|ksaying, 
you remember the accident which happened the day Defore I 
left — the death of the tramp — and his strange story ? 

(David rt//^/ Mrs. B. exchange glances ; Dru. nods head.) 

Dru. Didn't I say there was something? 1 said 

Dick. Please, Aunt Drusie, let Mr. Wentworth continue. 
I am sure what he has to say will mterest you all. 

{They group themselves around James, who is in centre — 
the group well front. As James takes up narrative again y 
Squire appears in doorway. He pauses on seeing James, 
and listens, unobserved.^ 

James. Well, my friends, I knew at the time that this story 
was true, for I was one of those who were alluded to — in fact, 
I was the one referred to as having been convicted of a crime 
of which he was innocent, and convicted on the testimony of a 
man who had previously posed as my friend, — a scoundrel, 
whom I had received into my home, but who, to save himself 
from the consequences of his own guilt, did not hesitate to sac- 
rifice my honor and ruin my life. I have the evidence to cor- 
roborate what I tell you, and to prove that the name of the man 
whose perjured tongue sent me to jail, who made of me a felon 
and an outcast — the man who after all these years I am at last 
able to hold up to the scorn and execration of his fellows, 
was 

Enter Mary and Tom. , l. ; Whit, goes over to Mary ; they 
listen afid converse. 

Squire {hastily breaking in and coming for7vard a little). 
Have a care, you jail breaker, you — you fugitive from justice. 
There is law in this land, and you will find 

James {paying no attention ; goes on as before). This man, 
whose guilty conscience is its own accuser, stands there before 
you. {Points suddenly at Squire.) 

Squire. You lie — you 

James. I do not lie, Francis Alford, and you know it, for 
you are the man. 

{All the rest instinctively draw away from Squire.) 



48 ELMWOOD FOLKS 

Squire. I say tliat 



James {still pointing). You are the robber — the deceiver 
of my wife — the abductor of my child. 

Dick (starting). What? Can it be that _y(?/^ ? 

James. Dick, it is true ; I am your father — Allen Ormsby. 

( They embrace.) 
Dick. Oh, I always felt there was something — you were 



(^Suddenly turns to Squire.) This, then, is the reason my poor 
mother would never tell me my real name. I thank heaven 
that I will now have one of which I need not be ashamed. 

Squire. You poor deluded fools ! Do you credit these lies ? 
(JTo James.) I will make you prove the truth of this malicious 
attack — you will rue this day. 

James. I will prove it. It was for that purpose I have been 
working day and night for the last three months. I have 
already established my own innocence by the aid of evidence 
which the story of the tramp enabled me to procure at the scene 
of your crime — evidence which will also serve to place you 
where you belong. 

Squire. Again I say it is all 

James. There is no need to prolong this scene. I have ac- 
complished my purpose, (^Motions to Dick, who goes to door^ 
whistles and beckons. Mr. Pinch enters quickly.) Officer, 
this is your man ; you know your duty. 

Mr. p. Sorry, sir, but you will have to come with me. 

Squire. I will not ; this is an outrage — you have no war- 
rant for this. 

Mr. p. Oh, I have the warrant all right. (Shows paper .) 
You had better come along without making any further fuss — 
or {Displays handcuffs.) 

Squire (shrinking). Just a moment. (To James.) You 
think you have won, but I will soon clear myself of your foul 
slanders. (Turns to David.) And at all events this will not 
help you, Bainbridge, with the mortgage business. I'll lake 
care that my attorney forecloses to-morrow, and you will be 
turned out in the street like the dogs you all are. 

Dick. Hold on. I have a few words to say on that point. 
I have been expecting you would give me this opportunity. 
(To David.) Mr. Bainbridge, some time ago I came into pos- 
session of facts which led me to believe the man who was con- 
cerned in the mining fraud could be brought to book and made 



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